I think for a moment, before remembering
I’m feeling sorry for myself.
“Maybe we can put some concealer on it,”
says Daisy, reaching into her bag. Daisy has
started wearing makeup, but not too much.
She looks much older than fourteen.
I barely look twelve.
“No way,” I say,
“I’m not wearing makeup! I’d rather miss
the stupid dance.”
“That’s a shame,” says Daisy.
“You might have had a dance, maybe even
a kiss with Rowan.”
Daisy lifts up the duvet
and we both slide in.
We spend the evening
watching prom movies
with happy endings.
I tell Mum I’ve decided to loc my hair.
Mum doesn’t mind; she says: “Do whatever
makes you happy, Michael. As long
as you focus on your exams.”
The hairdresser says,
“Because your hair is so soft,
I have to wrap it up with synthetic hair
and it will loc up underneath.
People won’t be able to tell to look at it.
Every day you must keep twisting
the roots—as it grows, the synthetic
hair will fall out and you’ll have locs
